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We continue with Ron and Charlie’s “tour” of the Alpha Gamma Pi fraternity from The Pledging:

“Joining a fraternity is joining a family.” Low and hypnotic, Jamal’s voice held his attention. “There’s a reason we’re called brothers—just like biological siblings, we’re alike in some ways and different in others. We’ll laugh, we’ll argue…” The coasting fingers had become stronger; Jamal pressed and massaged with his hand, as Charlie relaxed more and more into the caress. “We’ll fight, we’ll play…”

Doubt and fear still clamored in Charlie’s mind, but those apprehensions were quickly drowning in a rising tide of hormones. Christ! He wanted to feel something on his cock other than his own hand. Jacking off in the shower—unlike his dorm-mate, it bothered Charlie to masturbate with a non-participant in the room—was not good enough; orgasm dispelled the immediate craving, but did nothing to solve the problem—he was horny. And now, with a hot upperclassman half-naked and rubbing his back, why was he thinking all stupid and scared?

“But, most importantly, we’ll also love—which is my favorite part.” An arm followed the fingers and hand to lay across his shoulders, heavy with expectations.

Aww, fuck it, Charlie thought. He melted against the warm, firm body, wrapping himself into the embrace. Lips brushed his cheek, and he turned toward the fraternity brother. Jamal’s mouth was hot velvet against his skin, as the older boy traced along his jaw line to nuzzle beneath his ear. Wandering lower, Jamal moved aside Charlie’s shirt collar to ghost over his collarbone. The water bottle slipped from his grasp and thumped to the floor, forgotten.

The Earl’s manservant is just showing Christos to his new living quarters:

Christos’ head swam.

The suite of rooms was larger than his father’s entire house in Arpos. A sitting room furnished in heavy chintz pieces connected to a bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed; there was even an adjoining bathroom, gleaming with white tile. James set the tiny valise at the foot of the enormous bed. “This is the best bed in this wing.” He brushed at the counterpane. “Care to give it a tumble?”

Christos turned around; James stood close behind him. “Excuse me?”

The Englishman took his hat from his hand and tossed it onto a table. “I asked… if you’d… like… to fuck.” James’ hands settled on his shoulders, neither pushing nor pulling. This close to the servant, Christos realized a spicy scent, like cloves or cinnamon, hung about him.

“Wha—“Christos swallowed with difficulty. “Why would you ask that?”

“Why not? You’re a fine looking fellow. And you are Greek after all, aren’t you?” James’ fingers had found their way under his suit coat and were gliding over his chest. “Nice and solid, too—just like I like.”

Christos’ thoughts spun. Never had anyone approached him so brashly. He was adept at the dance of secret glances and small gestures that was the way of the tavernas; but to have a man—particularly one as handsome as James—offer sex directly sent him into a spiral. Fear and surprise struggled with a desire that had smoldered since he entered the manor house. Lust won.

Last post we had a clip of The Pledging from Ron’s point of view. This week we join the action from where Charlie is sitting:

Charlie’s heart raced so quickly he thought he might faint.

He could feel the sex radiating off Jamal like heat from a furnace, and the cologne was just like Kevin’s—sharp and spicy, it went straight to his brain stem. He was so hard it hurt and—goddamn, he wanted to get off.

But just as much he wanted to run.

He knew he talked a good game—loud and confident, when he needed it—but this was different. He’d never had sex with anyone but Kevin. Sure, they’d tried some kinky stuff—ropes and wax mostly—but it had only ever been Kevin, whom he’d known for as long as he could remember.

He knew what Jamal was offering to him, to both of them. But he knew he would say or do something stupid, something to humiliate himself or worse to embarrass Ron. He couldn’t move for fear of betraying his lack of experience.

Jamal continued, his voice soft and easy. “I heard Jake give his ‘The fraternity is all about support’ speech.” A hand ghosted across Charlie’s back, and he flinched, but Jamal seemed not to notice. “Now I know we like quality pledges, and I’m all for support, but that’s not everything that Alpha Gamma Pi is about.”

The hand returned, and Charlie didn’t jump. More definite this time, the fingers coasted along his spine, stopping here and there to rub at a particularly rigid spot. He began to unwind. Maybe it won’t be too bad. Without moving his head, he glanced sideways. Jamal lay back, his legs splayed out and a large bulge distended his cargo shorts. Ron had nestled into the corner of the sofa, his head thrown back and his right leg against Jamal’s left. Ron’s hand stroked up and down the fraternity brother’s thigh. Even with Ron’s tan, his skin was pale against Jamal’s

Charlie’s cock got harder still.

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Today for WeWriWa we have another piece from my swords and sorcery romance, Radiq:

The noon sun beat upon Radiq’s shoulders, flattening his resolve like a slug of iron upon an anvil. As much as he wanted to, there was little the warrior turned ambassador could do to delay the inevitable approach to the Guild House—the streets of Thal Qedoq were nearly empty, the city’s inhabitants having escaped indoors away from the broiling heat. His mission was simple: He need only meet with the Red Guild Master and secure his assistance—for surely the greatest mage in the eastern world would readily know the location of a crown lost for three millennia?

Radiq snorted at the ludicrousness of that thought. His real concern should be avoiding an encounter with Marron—his brother would unquestionably want to pick up the fight where Radiq had dropped it ten years ago—and Radiq had no time to spare on Marron’s ambition and self-justification.

Laying further consideration of his brother’s errors aside as unproductive, Radiq turned his horse onto Qed Harraq, the great thoroughfare that ran straight as a lance to the gates of the Guild House. The First Sword of Thessalia reined Jessel to a halt within the deep shadows of the great entrance. His nerves crawled with the sense of being watched; that discomfort angered him, and he called out sharply to the guardhouse, “Make way for the envoy of Crown Prince Vadim, heir to the throne of Thal Thessaly!”

“We know who you are, Radiq, son of Thorrim,” replied a voice from the shadowed gate house, “and we know why you have come.”

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Continuing a tour of the WIP pile brings us to The Pledging, a contemporary college romance with interesting bits, which is in that difficult stage of first draft edits. This clip finds our protagonists Ron and Charlie having a private tour of the Alpha Gamma Pi workout building:

“Sit, relax!” As Jamal walked toward the fridge, he pulled off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside on a chair. “We’ve got water—bubbly or flat—juice, soda. No liquor is allowed down here, so it’s all virgin—present company excluded, that is!” Again that wonderful laugh.

Ron knew he was staring, but he couldn’t look away—Jamal had broad shoulders, an incredibly slim waist and not an ounce of fat. Textbook definition on the fraternity brother’s back made Ron want to run his fingers along each of the clearly visible muscle groups. They flexed and relaxed, dancing under Jamal’s skin, as he rummaged around for drinks. “What’ll it be, dudes?”

“Water,” Ron managed to croak; his fingers weren’t the only thing that wanted to play with the half-naked brother. He glanced over at Charlie who was clearly trying to look anywhere but at Jamal. “Definitely water.”

“H two O, it is.” With three sweating bottles, the AGP brother returned to the sofa and handed out the water. When he flopped down between Ron and Charlie, a tangy scent wafted around him. Patchouli, Ron thought, and he had to squirm to get more comfortable; he twisted a little to lean against the arm of the sofa, trying to seem casual and still disguise the growing bulge in his pants.

On the other side Charlie sat ramrod straight, his hands clasping the unopened bottle in his lap. He perched on the edge of the sofa like he were in church—or on trial. He always seemed so self-possessed—he was out, proud and didn’t take shit from anybody—why would he be nervous now? Ron wondered at that.

A sharp crackle made Ron jump. Jamal was rubbing himself with the cool water bottle; some of the condensation had beaded in the curly hairs scattered across his equally magnificent chest. Two silver bars pierced his nipples. Ron’s pants had definitely gotten too tight.

“I wanted us to have some quiet time.” Jamal crushed the plastic bottle and tossed it into the nearby recycling bin. “You know, to answer any questions you might have.” His glance slid between them as his arms settled across the back of the sofa. “To get to know you guys better.”

Radiq reined in Jessel atop the rise. The roan stallion blew and stamped, its breath billowing in the cool morning air. A slight breeze stirred Radiq’s hair and carried the acrid scents of horse and man. Nine days of hard travel had brought them to this hilltop. Their shadows stretched out before them to point the way to Thal Qedoq. The City of the Red Mages lay nestled in the foothills of the Great Western Mountains, its tall gates overlooking the Valley of Sha’Harim; he’d be riding through those gates by mid-day.

Ten years ago he’d ridden out those same gates and sworn never to return. But that oath meant little when weighed against the life of the man he now served, and Radiq refused to look any more closely at what that itself meant. Ironically, saving that life would mean sacrificing the one true desire of his own life, for Prince Vadim could no more be with Radiq than Radiq could fly to one of the pale moons, which even now faded as the sun grew stronger.

“Oh, my prince,” he thought, “why did you have to contract marriage with a sorceress?”

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Today’s clip is from The Greek Room, a historical about a young Greek emigré, Christos, who finds himself employed in the home of an English earl. Here, Christos encounters the earl’s majordomo, James:

James paused on the landing and faced the newcomer. He took a moment to examine Christos—and what he saw was quite nice. Olive-skinned with balanced features, the young man would make Adonis jealous. James sighed. “Look ‘ere, mate. Sorry ‘bout that bit at the front door—old man Evans don’t like being’ disturbed over much. Jus’ doin’ my job, ya know.” He extended his hand. “I’m James.”

“Christos.” The hand that grasped James’ was long-fingered, rough and callused. Not the poncey kind of hand James had expected.

James gripped a little harder than would actually be polite—only to be equally matched. Clearly this chap was no slouch. Wonder what he’s like to fuck. James could easily imagine those work-hardened hands gripping and touching him. His cock twitched.

“Welcome to Dunbarton ‘All.”

“Thank you, James.” Christos matched his gaze with wide, green eyes.

James especially liked those green eyes. Perhaps his being here won’t be so bad after all.

As some of you know, I always have little things brewing on several back burners. It’s really quite symptomatic of my WADD—not to mention that I bore easily. So I sifted through some WIPs and came across a noir-y sorta mystery I have under construction.

Today’s Tease is from The Case of the Leonine Lover:

From first I could tell he was going to be trouble.

A mane of blond hair, long enough to curl on his collar, caught what sunlight managed to barge through the smudgy windows of the office building. As he leaned against the wall beside my door, that same light caressed the bronze skin of his crossed arms; judging from the size of his biceps, they alone were probably keeping some expensive gym in business. A white V-neck tee-shirt stretched over his sculpted chest, clinging to that muscled torso like a needy lover.

I sighed—the last thing I needed was trouble. But I did need to pay the rent—at least last month’s—so I nodded as I approached the door.

He levered himself away from the wall and extended a large hand. “Mr. Dimon?”

“Like someone else would be coming here at 9:30 in the morning?” Warily, I buried my hand in the outstretched paw.

His grip was considerate – not the “I’ve got more testosterone than you do” crusher of most hyper-masculine gym posers I’d met. His skin was soft, too. I wanted to kill him – or fuck him. Fuck him hard and fast, and put him out in the morning with the milk bottles. “That’s me. What can I do ya’ for?”

Warm and silky, Ivan’s skin stretched over shifting muscles that knotted up into rocks beneath Luk’s fingers. His hot breath and soft lips against Luk’s neck soon broke down any resistance, and nothing mattered but to feel Ivan’s heart beating against his chest.

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